“Ornithology bores people,” he had said, and as soon as the words left his mouth, he felt himself cringing all the way down to his bones.
He was terrible at this.
Dan was a vigilante-turned-bird-expert, and he knew the description wasn’t what drove Laurie to unfasten his belt right there on the couch. It was loneliness; it was an impulse, maybe a blind need for comfort. All the same, he wanted to slide into place with her. He ached to feel whole again, was desperate for some kind of control.
His mind raced to the dark places men go when what they see or where they are can’t bring them to the edge. A night sky. A rooftop perch. The cold flap of wings and cutting through the howl of sirens below. The old days, when he’d been a legend. Nite Owl, terror in the dark. He shivered, but it wasn’t enough. He felt weak and flaccid as just a man, ready to give up and cower away to bed. Then she told him to put on the cape.
Inside the suit he was so much more. The costume made him a god. The goggles, the wings, the firm leather against his skin contrasting the parts exposed, pushing against her. He could hold her, take her. Push his fingers into her mouth and bite at her collarbones, a predatory animal blind with lust. She moaned beneath him, and her surprise at his forcefulness only egged him on.
This, he was good at.
When the ship landed, Dan and Laurie disembarked in a haze of sweat and nostalgia. They’d hatched a plan to rescue Rorschach from prison—not that he was generally the type to need rescuing—but Dan was lost in his head. He tried to sleep, watching Laurie’s chest rise and fall under the thin veneer of yellow silk. It was useless.
He went down to the workshop.
“Dan?”
“In here, Laurie.”
She hovered in the doorway, sleep clinging to her eyes. It was dark, too dark, and she was confused. It must have been five in the morning.
“I made you something.”
She clicked on the light, her pupils struggling to adjust, and what she saw did little to ease her. There was Dan; or rather, there was Nite Owl, sitting at a desk fully costumed, his fingers working thick fabric through a loop. The steady thwip-thwip-thwip of the serger echoed along the steel walls of what she’d begun to refer to as his underground lair.
“Did you come to bed?”
“I did. I did, Laurie… but I couldn’t sleep.”
She came to him, draping her arms around the back of his chair. He wore the goggles even now, threading thick black leather through the industrial-grade equipment. The needle pounded away at what seemed like a cape, long and dark, shining opalescent in the dim purple light. Thwip, thwip, thwip.
“Is it a new costume?”
“It is. I…”
He stopped, pulling the long cape away from the needle, snipping the thread from a loose end. She could see now the make of the thing—overlapping teardrops of black fabric gave the appearance of feathers, cascading down the length of it and pooling onto the floor. Wings. Dark leather wings.
“I made this for you.”
She pulled from his outstretched arms a tight black dress, covered over again in the same pattern. Long black gloves with sharpened points at their tips. Boots, which would easily reach to midthigh, were sculpted at the toe to resemble… talons?
“Dan?”
“Laurie…”
He handed her, finally, a cowl. Great, majestic black feathers rose up from the temples, the eyes masked over by shadowed glass. The sculpt came down to a point, over where her nose would lie, a hard ebony beak.
“Dan.”
“Laurie?”
She looked into his eyes. His determination had shrunk into fear, realizing with every moment how he had exposed himself with the gesture. Dark, majestic Laurie, careening through the night in search of prey. He could feel himself getting harder and shifted in his seat. He’d overplayed his hand, and he knew, watching her eyes scan the room and her hands drift over the cold leather. She would never.
“Is this what you want?”
She pulled the mask over her head. It disguised her almost completely, presenting unequivocally the countenance of a raven. Austere, governing, ready to strike. Dan felt his hands begin to sweat. She slipped on the dress. Dark feathers overlapped on her curves, her thighs exposed and teasing at him. The talons, the claws at the base of those maddening legs.
“Like this?”
Dan felt his mouth drying as she fastened on the wings. His resembled a cape more classically—he’d often thought he’d been too subtle—but not hers. They rose from her back like dark clouds to menace over him.
“I look like a bird,” she said.
“Yes,” he gasped.
“You want to have sex with birds.”
His hand trembled.
“No… no. Not like that, not…” It was hard to speak, her standing there looking like she did, all her soft corners sharpened by the angles of the costume and the beak and those feathers. God, those feathers.
“You want to have sex with me while we’re dressed as birds.”
He felt himself choke, small guttural sounds unfurling from his lips. He was glad she couldn’t see his face, not all of it. The flush on his cheeks burned under his mask.
“Is that… so wrong?”
She moved to him, leather rustling as she closed the short gap between their bodies. He wondered if she could feel the heat pulsing from his entire being. That beak…
Laurie took his gloved hand, pulling the thick brown material off his fingers slowly. She held it in her teeth. Her hand guided his, caressing her soft down, reaching for the warmth between her legs. She was wet, terribly so. She pushed his fingers in. Her wings brushed his arm. He moaned.
“Caw, caw.”
Dan’s eyes flashed open, his cock suddenly aching against the front of his pants. Had she really—
“Caw, caw.”
She flapped her wings, her head cocked to the side, studying him like an abandoned French fry on a waterfront pier.
“L-Laurie?” He stammered through her name.
She reached for him, running her gloved hands determinedly over his unyielding erection. He’d nearly forgotten his fingers, dripping with her, and on remembering began to run circles around her clit. Her knees trembled.
“I need you to fuck me, Nite Owl.”
She unclasped the belt of his costume, reaching for him. He grabbed her hand, stopping her, and their beaks clacked as she looked up in question at his protest.
“Hold on,” he begged.
He pressed a button on the sewing desk, and a section of what had appeared to be a seamless wall began to retract. A darkened room revealed itself opposite them. Laurie craned her neck to see. He pushed his fingers inside her again, harder this time, catching her off guard and forcing a stammering moan.
“I’ve got a nest.”
There are rules about this job, you know.
Like first off don’t tell anyone your real name. That’s dangerous for a superhero. Unless your name is Lala La [big kissing sound] and you’re repeating it into my twat, shut your blowhole.
We use code names. Superhero names. To protect our identities but also to sound powerful or intimidating or sexy. Like me… I chose “the Silhouette” because it’s dark and mysterious, like a backlit feminine figure in a street corner window or like a suggestive hand puppet.
It’s important to choose a name that reflects your talent or your affect or one that’s just plain menacing. The easiest way to come up with a name is combine an adjective describing your genitalia with your favorite social cause. That’s how Hooded Justice chose his name. It’s pretty easy. So like you [points to audience member]. You could be Kegel-Clinching Equality. And you: the Turgid Vegan. And you: Moist Health Care Reform.
But that’s only if you’re totally out of ideas. A better way is to come up with a costume first. Like Nite Owl. That’s a good name. Haunting, wise, stealthy. He first devised his outfit… Actually that’s a terrible example. I’m not sure what tight gold shorts, a sleep mask, butterfly collars, and an Amelia Earhart hat make you. It’s something, but it’s not an owl.
I’ll give him this—it looked comfortable. And comfort’s a big part of crime fighting. For example, once I was tailing a couple of crooks trying to steal a prized jewel from a museum. I needed to sneak into dark corners and spy on them. So I chose comfy shoes that don’t squeak.
The crooks were wearing tight black leggings and deep V-neck tops revealing firm but felonious breasts that I wanted to caress until they repented for their crimes. This was a very smart getup on their part, but I was wearing a fitting tube top—simple to move in, breathable, but also easy to flip down when I wanted to teach this dastardly duo a couple of things… about my couple of things.
Once they saw me, the criminals moaned in terror. I grabbed one of them by the hair and she sighed, “No! I mean yes! I mean no!” And the other grabbed my hair and I breathed, “Yes! I mean no!” and then I was in her mouth, wrestling her tongue with my own to the soft pink ground, a little hint for the real kissing yet to come. “Yet to come,” I whispered, pulling my unmasked face away from her raccoon-styled, red sparkling eyeliner and glistening lower lip.
She started kissing her partner in crime, teaching her lips the lesson I just taught her own.
Another thing. You’ll want shorts that are flexible enough for flying scissor kicks, something that makes it easy to get your thighs around a criminal’s face. But not so tight they get hung up on your ankles as you’re working over these two wet-lipped, moon-hipped, unzipped, pussy burglars.
Those two fought hard. They fought with fists and tongues afire. I had one thief pinned beneath my hips. She was trying to get me off with her tongue. I really had her, but then… she discovered my kryptonite. No one had ever found my kryptonite. A decade of fighting male archnemeses, and not one ever found my fucking kryptonite. My only recourse was to rhythmically twirl my hips and groan in order to keep her incapacitated. She put out an angry, wet, valiant struggle.
Another good costume tip. File your nails. A lot of people get caught up in gloves and rings. But a good superhero should file their nails into sharp points. Don’t get bogged down in colored polish. Red, blue, that minty green shit everyone’s doing now, little pictures of cats. Fine, fine whatever. Just make the nails sharp.
Because when you’re in the fight of your life with criminal masterminds, every little edge helps. So I had the one pinned down, and the other tried to get away. I leaned back and caught her ankles with my hands, bringing her to all fours. I pulled her toward me and used my sharpened claws to slowly split open her protective costume. The tight top wet from sweat tore a wider and wider V, revealing to me the widest and wettest V I had ever seen.
She pressed her tits to my face, blinding and suffocating me. Her sidekick worked her tongue so deeply, so gently, so assertively. She knew where everything was, how much longer could I… NO! I managed to get my face around to one breast, and I knew she was expecting me to kiss, to suck, but instead I touched her nipple with my lips and blew. So lightly, so softly. She giggled and flinched away.
Another thing. Always wear a belt. You can flick it off quickly and threaten and tease your enemies with this makeshift whip.
I lifted her up, snaked off my belt, and tied her hands behind her back. While the one under me had almost defeated me, my kryptonite was taut and green and glowing and oh I think I’ve got enough air in there to just… Can I?
Yes. A powerful queef filled her face and vanquished her mood. She turned her head and gagged. I tied them both up back to back. I returned the diamond to the museum and stood over them, belt at my naked side, the insides of my legs bright with saliva and justice. “V is for victory,” I said.
I was about to punish them. Punish them for their sins when one of them said, “Zack Snyder.”
No! It was the safe word! And I had to let them go.
Until next time, you dirty thieves. Dirty, dirty thieves. And we all kissed and ran our separate ways through the dark city streets, naked save our comfortable shoes and punch-drunk grins.
So, a good nickname, a good costume. Those are pretty important. What else?
[Takes out cigarette]
Oh yeah, a good superhero has a cigarette in her mouth at all times.
[Places cigarette in mouth]
Intimidation. It lets the criminals know you’re cool. That you mean business. And that you just got laid.
First interview with Kovacs, aka Rorschach. He’s even more disturbed than I’d heard, but I’m optimistic. A success here could make my reputation. Also, I think he’s kind of hot.
I should qualify that. Physically, he’s fascinatingly ugly. I could stare at him for hours… except that he stares back, which I find uncomfortable. He never seems to blink. I worry about that. His corneas could dry out. I can see myself leaning over the table, opening my mouth and gently tonguing his eyeballs, bathing them in my lubricating saliva. But I would be the first to admit that would be totally unprofessional and aside the point. Especially for a first session. That’s maybe a third session thing.
Nevertheless, I’m convinced I can help him. No problem is beyond the grasp of a good psychoanalyst, and they tell me I’m very good. Good with people. And I am. Especially with short, ugly ginger-haired men with lovely bruises that suggest that he would be enthusiastic with all the fun wrestling parts of the sexy times. Like, I would ask him to tell me what he sees in the Rorschach blots, and he would tell me that he sees the two of us, heavily oiled, grappling right there in the prison conference room, with the guards watching us fight and taking bets on who would penetrate whom first.
And you would think it would be Kovacs, because he’s Rorschach, after all—he’s used to fighting people and penetrating them, although maybe not in the hot, sexy-times way. But I’ve got a little weight on him, and I did some Greco-Roman wrestling in high school. I’ve got some moves, man. And I can be slippery when I want to be. So I see us going for a long, sweaty, hard time before he finally gets the best of me and puts me over this conference room table here, his stiff, villain-fighting cock hovering just outside my quivering, manly love gate. And I’ll look up at him and beg, “Be gentle!” and he’ll look down and whisper, “No.”
This evening at home I asked Gloria if she’d be interested in trying out a strap-on and wrestling around. She looked at me sort of funny.
Kovacs is telling me about how he made his Rorschach mask from fabric taken from a dress made at his garment factory. It made me wonder how much of the fabric was made and if there was enough for a whole Rorschach body suit—a tight-fitting suit that would show off Kovacs’s wiry form, the inkblots pooling in all the right places to play across his pecs, the small of his back, his hard, compact buttocks, and his no-doubt-impressive testicles. I can see myself kneeling in front of Kovacs in his Rorschach getup, him opening up his trench coat and telling me to describe what I see down there. And I would tell him it looks like a butterfly with a deliciously fleshy proboscis, before I dove in and took all the nectar I could from him.
Asked Gloria tonight if she wanted to get into skintight bodysuits. She asked me if I was ill.
Later:
The deputy warden just called. Apparently Rorschach was involved in an incident today, with another inmate, in the prison lunchroom, involving hot oil… I don’t like to think about it, because it makes me a little jealous. Hot oils, another inmate, all the other inmates watching… hmmmm, yes. I got distracted enough that I suspect I might have missed a detail or two in what the deputy warden was telling me about the incident. I’ll have to go back and ask him about it. Or maybe I won’t. I bet my version is better.
Broached the subject of hot oils with Gloria this evening. She told me if I keep this shit up she’s going to leave me.
Rorschach told me everything today. But I wasn’t listening. I was imagining him and all the other costumed crimefighters getting together to talk about fighting crime but eventually everyone has a drink or two and then the costumes come off—except for the masks, of course—and they all descend into a pile of sweaty, virtuous crimefighting sexy-times. Just then, a cadre of the worst of their supervillains attack, intending to take advantage of the crimefighters at their weakest and most distracted, but when they see the naked hotness, and all the crimefighters available to them for their debased wickedness, they join as well, and for the evening the city of New York is devoid of the sounds of crime or crimefighting, save the moaning of these two groups as they merge, violently, passionately, in an intermingling of costumes and fluids.
And where am I? Well, I’m right in the middle of it. Because Rorschach was so impressed with my skills in helping him that he invited me over to meet with them all as a consultant. And I do. I consult with them all. Thoroughly. One moist, willing, tangy orifice at a time.
I was so taken with this idea that I confess that when Rorschach stopped talking and left the room, I was still distracted and silent. I think it might have looked like I was shocked and depressed by his story. I’ll need to have him tell it to me again. I shouldn’t have gotten so distracted. That’s really unprofessional. But he’s just so hot I can’t help it.
Gloria reminded me that tonight she’s invited Randy and Diana to dinner. I think on the way home I’ll stop at the costume store in Times Square and pick up some crimefighter getups for each of us and see if it leads to anything. Honestly, I see no way this plan could ever possibly go wrong.